


Merry Christmas, Mr. Gorbachev

by AnotherAnon0



Series: Toxic [2]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood, Dubious Morality, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Military, Russia, Soviet Union, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:21:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23852227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0
Summary: Sergei isn't coping well with the collapse of the Soviet Union.~"These people... These people have no fucking shame!"Red-faced and gasping in anger, Sergei was a disheveled sight. The Colonel's normally astute, calm confidence that could swallow a room whole had been replaced with a whimpering anxiety, one Nicholai anticipated given the circumstances, but still had difficulty comprehending.
Relationships: Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Sergei Vladimir
Series: Toxic [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718308
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Merry Christmas, Mr. Gorbachev

The radio gently parsed through his apartment, the newscaster's voice searching for him. Nicholai felt like he was hiding from it, in a way, even though he was just standing at the window, watching the heavy snowflakes sink to the ground below. 

Cold radiated through the thin-paned glass, causing goosebumps to form along Nicholai's crossed arms. He contemplated getting a sweater to toss over the pyjamas he'd just changed into, wondering if the radiator in his old Moscow apartment would consider kicking in anytime soon.

_'... and the transition into the Russian Federation from the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic will occur at midnight tonight, in accordance with the new legislative statute...'_

" **No** shame!" 

The bellow of anguish caught Nicholai by surprise, causing his heart to lunge into his throat. Nicholai twisted awkwardly to meet the noise, catching the reflection of movement in the window he had been city-watching through.

"These people... These people have **no** **fucking** shame!"

Red-faced and gasping in anger, Sergei was a disheveled sight. The Colonel's normally astute, calm confidence that could swallow a room whole had been replaced with a whimpering anxiety, one Nicholai anticipated given the circumstances, but still had difficulty comprehending. 

Sergei kicked the door shut behind him, lazily pulling at his water-pebbled wool scarf and letting it fall. His jacket was the next to go, the taut plastic bag he was holding swapped hands as he wiggled out each arm, its contents clinking loudly as he did so. The heavy, military-issued trench dropped to the floor unceremoniously. 

Nicholai sighed, rubbing his eyebrow, "You knew this was coming, Sergei. We all did."

The older man had shakily made his way to the couch. The bag of liquor clanked to the floor loudly, bottles of moskovskaya falling at Sergei's boots like bowling pins.

"I thought the military would try again. The Generals were talking..." Sergei said breathily, teary eye darting around as though he was watching a scene play out in the middle of the room, in another world, "I thought Yanayev's boys would try again..."

Nicholai closed the distance between them, quietly making his way across the dark wood floor that felt colder against his bare feet than it had minutes before. 

Settling on the couch, Nicholai watched Sergei play out strategies for coup d'etats in his head, on the living room floor, somewhere within the fabric of the Georgian carpet. Ones that would have certainly, surely worked _this_ time. He sighed, dropping back into the old pillows momentarily, before sitting up to reach over Sergei's thighs and grab a bottle of the vodka from the floor.

Making quick work of the iconic gold cap, Nicholai took a short swig. The warm, deep burn took a few seconds to penetrate his tongue, cheeks, and throat. It was familiar. He prodded Sergei's arm with the bottom of the bottle, silently demanding he exit the trance-like state he'd caught himself up within.

"It was the **fucking** Americans." The Colonel spat viciously, grabbing the vodka and downing what Nicholai registered as a concerning amount from the corner of his eye. Sergei breathed deeply, "It was the fucking Americ--" his repetition stopped short.

_'... the last time the Soviet Anthem will be played. This is Natalia Sokolova ending the evening. Fyodor Smirnov will be taking over at the top of the hour for the overnight broadcast.'_

The reporter's voice was followed by a brief moment of silence before the State Anthem of the Soviet Union began blaring out over the radio Nicholai had forgotten was still on. Sergei looked frozen, vodka bottle hovering at his bottom lip, which was caught on the last syllable of the last word he had wanted to utter. Nicholai watched as the muscles in his neck twitched intermittently, tendons dancing in silent anxiety and despair.

_'An unbreakable union of free republics!_

_The great Russia has welded forever to stand!_

_Long live the creation of the will of the people!_

_The united, mighty Soviet Union!'_

"Now they're just rubbing it in..." Nicholai muttered quietly, collapsing back on the pillows of the couch quick enough to avoid noticing the horrified glare Sergei had shot his way. As the anthem faded out, Nicholai reached for the pack of cigarettes that he'd left on the coffee table, sighing when his lighter was no where to be found. He could hear Sergei taking another swig of the vodka. 

"Fuck Gorbachev. Absolute... **fucking** spineless pig." Sergei spat viciously. Nicholai couldn't tell if his words were slurring from anger or the alcohol. Before he could crane his neck to check how much vodka was left in the moskovskaya he'd opened, Sergei brought it to his lips again, taking another expert chug.

"Shit." Nicholai peeped, unlit cigarette hanging between his lips idly as his lighter continued to evade him, " _Seryozha_ , you're going to drink yourself to death tonight." 

The bottle 'popped' sweetly as Sergei pulled it away from his lips, breaking the tight suction that had formed. He gasped slightly, needing air.

"Good."

Nicholai began to search through the couch cushions for his lighter, now fully confident he had lost it somewhere in the mess of throw pillows earlier when he was watching television. His momentary distraction left him off-guard for the scarred hand that would reach out to grab him by the collar of his blue pyjama shirt. The cigarette fell from his lips as he gasped. With a force he shouldn't have been capable of in his inebriated state, Sergei pulled him close. Closer. Until the younger man was lying on top of his chest. A heavy arm over his shoulders secured him. The vodka bottle dangled out of his other hand, over the edge of the couch, hovering _just_ above the floor.

Cheekbone on collarbone.

Uncomfortable. 

Sergei kicked his legs up onto the couch, taking one of Nicholai's between his thighs. 

"It's going to be okay, _Kolya_." The Colonel said, reassuring words meant for no one but himself, "It's going to be fine."

Nicholai grunted a neutral response, trying to shrug himself into a better position but failing. 

He hated this part. The part where Sergei's familiar scent began to tickle the tip of his nose. That old, Russian _troynoy_ cologne that smelled of lemons and neroli oil was intoxicating to him. Nostalgic, though he couldn't pinpoint a time he'd encountered it before. Now, the fading notes of honey and bitter orange on his neck battled with the liquor on Sergei's breath for dominance. 

Pattering snow caressing the window. The creaking and bubbling of the radiator as it finally accommodated the chill that was creeping in through the old pane. The radio announcer, now a man with a soft voice, seemingly so distant. The room was almost silent.

"I'm going to make these bastards pay, you know." 

Nicholai didn't realise his eyes had been closed until they opened. 

"You're very drunk." 

Sergei lifted the bottle of vodka to his lips, the glass bottom grazing Nicholai's temple as he took his final swig.

"They're going to pay, _Kolya_." He repeated, grunting into the neck of the bottle as he lowered it. His voice was steadier then Nicholai wanted to admit. "They will all suffer."

The younger man sighed, watching the now-empty bottle make its way to the floor, loudly clamouring to its side as Sergei tipsily dropped it.

"You need water and bread." He said, wriggling his way out of Sergei's grasp and hopping off of the couch to make his way to his small kitchen. Retrieving a loaf of rye from the freezer, he tossed a few thick slices in the oven. 

Stepping into the adjacent bathroom, Nicholai twisted the creaky tap until a gush of ice-cold water flowed into the sink. Cupping his hands beneath the flow, he dipped his face into the water, seeking greater clarity. 

He wasn't drunk. Not even close. And yet his mind was hazy. 

The older man had the incredible effect of transmuting reality into a dream-like state for him. Recalling remnants of memories he didn't want. Creating new ones he didn't want. 

Looking up into the mirror, Nicholai watched the beads of water drip off of his face. Some curled under his chin, rolling down his neck to darken the collar of his shirt, still wrinkled from where Sergei had grabbed it. 

The tap creaked as he closed it, not bothering to dry his face as he caught a whiff of the bread that had been in the oven.

Sergei was gone by the time he re-entered the living room, plate of toast and glass of water in hand. The only evidence the other man had ever been there was the empty vodka bottle by the couch, and the wool scarf that had been forgotten by the door. 

**Author's Note:**

> Context: In Umbrella Chronicles, a letter from Sergei to Nicholai can be found. The letter suggests Sergei is a pretty hardcore nationalist, and was signed up with Umbrella just to perpetuate some pipe-dream he had about re-building the Soviet Union, or at least re-building Russia's position in the world. Which, in the late-90s/early-00s, would have been very bad. 
> 
> On December 25, 1991, the Soviet Anthem was played for the last time, and the Soviet flag was lowered and replaced with the Russian three-bar. A coup had been attempted a few months prior by hardcore USSR nationalists in the military, but it failed.
> 
> Christmas would not actually have been celebrated on the 25th of December. Orthodox Russians celebrate Christmas on the 7th of January. And Christmas was not actually observed until after the collapse of the Soviet Union. I just liked the name for the title :)


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